


mochi and memories

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Character Death, Childhood Sweethearts, Fluff, M/M, Modern Royalty, Reunions, Sheithmark 2021, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: After his grandfather dies, Shiro moves back to his hometown to try to salvage Oji-chan's long-lost dream of a bakery.Then, someone he thought was lost a long time ago returns...
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 77
Collections: Sheithmark 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sheithmark Bingo Card: I did my best to get close to a blackout, but my first full line included From the Big City, Campaign to Save the Town/Business, High School Sweetheart, Dog, and Slow Dancing <3 I also tried to make the plot semi-serious, but it got very, very Hallmark-y ;)
> 
> Thank you to the mods for putting together this fun event!

The palace is draped in opulence and fresh-cut flowers, banners with the kingdom’s insignia on every stone wall. A few nervous murmurs fill the hall, yet more are frozen in nervousness or contemplation, all standing in a neat line. Some are wearing spotless military uniforms, others in the finest suits money could buy, and a few in clearly handed down revelry. There are tense smiles, confident smirks, bored yawns, eyes looking down at the finely woven rugs. 

Despite the excitement in the air, one person is perfectly calm, resplendent in a dark purple gown and a circlet upon her head, the model of decorum and grace. No one but two knew, though, she had a silver dagger strapped to her thigh, and more secreted around her person. 

At the far end of the hall, a man stands, occasionally exchanging deep nods at latecomers. He wishes everyone had the decency to arrive on time, but these events never began straightaway. His earpiece, discreetly wrapped around his ear along with a silver braid, chatters a steady commentary of the security guards, some visible and some not. All seems well today, a welcome change from the decades of tense tyranny and constant spies.

With another skim across the room, he locks eyes with the woman, who nods once. 

He then clears his throat and looks each of the guards in the eye, and they seamlessly snap to attention as the room hushes in anticipation. 

“Thank you for coming today in celebration of our new son and heir’s birthday,” he intones, and there’s a round of polite applause. “Presenting His Royal Highness, House of Marmora, the First of His Name, Prince Keith Yorak Kogane.” 

A trumpet sounds, the waiting crowd leans forward, the double doors open, and—

_“Where is he?”_

* * *

As always, at five a.m. sharp, Takashi Shirogane begins opening the bakery.

He’s gotten into the habit of mixing the batter before he closes up for the evening, then popping the trays of muffins into the oven first thing in the morning. While those begin to bake, Shiro starts the beat-up coffee maker in the back so he could have some energy, while doing another cursory wipe-down of everything: the tables, the chairs, the counters, the windows. 

Even though burglary is not really a problem, he still checks the register, then the jars of homemade jams and preserves, packets of muffin mix, wrapped lollipops, and brown bags of feed for the squirrels lined up for sale in the front. 

The place is officially a bakery, but he sells a mishmash of things: forest passes and cheap sunglasses and maps and cold drinks and the town newspaper. Beside the cash register, which now takes credit cards, is a battered red _take a penny, leave a penny_ box.

Carefully, with thin plastic gloves, Shiro arranges pastries in the display counter, along with their name and prices neatly printed in Sharpie, then moves the day-old ones in a marked-down “goodie bag,” set out on the counter. He tries not to notice he’s lining more nowadays as he steps away to change the CLOSED sign to OPEN, then to unstack the tables and chairs and open the outdoor umbrellas. 

As always, _Shirogane’s_ lines the window in sprawling cursive, repainted over the years. 

No one really comes this early, but Shiro sits at the counter on a stool with his mug in hand and sighs, opening one of the slightly-battered books from his trip to the library. 

Glued to the inside cover is a faded envelope, a slip of paper with check-out dates and names stamped in blue ink. Towards the end of the list is KEITH KOGANE, and Shiro finds himself running his fingers over the letters. 

He doesn’t remember seeing Keith read this particular book, but can picture him perfectly, even after all these years, perched in some tucked-away corner, head bent over the pages, shaggy bangs hiding his face, the sleeves of his red jacket rolled up to his elbows. 

Shiro used to stretch out at his feet, thumbing through his study notes, or if they were truly alone, press his mouth temptingly to Keith’s neck. It was a game they played, Keith doing his best to ignore Shiro, sometimes stretching his neck farther out, allowing Shiro to continue lower, or whacking him playfully with his book. He still remembers Keith folding over, laughing, book slipping through his fingers and tumbling onto the carpet as Shiro lunged at him, hands beginning to tickle over his stomach. 

The last time they were alone like that was the night of high school graduation…

Shiro shakes his head, forcefully turns a page, and pulls the book closer.

* * *

At eight, Shiro decides to call it a day. He’s gone through three books, two magazines, and several hours of trash TV, and only a few customers, all regulars, had come in. 

His bakery’s the only thing open on this stretch of the road, and when he flicks the lights out and steps outside, it feels like he’s the only person left in the world. Shiro closes the door behind him with a jangle of keys, one hand resting on his bike to keep it from tipping over; the kickstand had gone out a long time ago. 

The storefront letters are almost invisible in the dark, and he sighs. 

“I’m sorry, Oji-chan,” he murmurs. 

His grandfather’s dream was to have a little bakery, he told Shiro more often than once, with homemade treats and cherry-red booths. There would be _shakuhachi_ playing in the background—“Not played by me. The Shiroganes never had a talent for music,” he’d joked—with plants in tiny ceramic pots and a teapot at every table. There would be local artwork hanging on the walls—“Your mother used to paint such nice landscapes,” he said, which Shiro had trouble even imagining—and maybe a Sunday band. If it was successful, maybe some actual food, too,in little picnic baskets with trays inside, arranged like bento boxes. 

But no one had a taste for the carefully prepared treats his grandparents rolled out. It had been his mom’s idea for American treats to take center stage—doughnuts, muffins, quick bread, scones—until everything but the mochi was missing from the menu. 

Now, Shiro makes just enough to keep the lights on, and the customers who’d been around since the shop first opened keep coming back. But they’re growing increasingly older and older, and their kids don’t stay here—and Shiro really can’t criticize. He himself had fled as soon as he was able.

When he gets home, Black slinks up to him and rubs against his legs. He takes a moment to rub his cat’s cheeks before she lightly nips him, clearly asking for food. 

As he scrapes out the contents of a can onto the same paw-print bowl, Shiro starts to calculate: if he can hold on for the summer holiday season, he can pay the increasing rent on the shop. Tourists were always a boon; if he was lucky, he could even have a little left over to contribute to his debts. Maybe he could serve boba, like the new places in town popping up like mushrooms after the rain, if they don’t decide to undercut him like they did with coffee. 

But Shiro worries he won’t even make it that far.

Shiro sets down the bowl, Black immediately sticking her face in, and heads over to the freezer and pulls out a TV dinner at random: salty salisbury steak, grainy mashed potatoes, limp green beans. 

As he punches in the microwave time, Shiro looks around the front room, cluttered with mail dropped on the coffee table and laundry strewn on the carpet, and wonders if he should bother turning on the lights. 

“What do you think? Feeling fancy tonight?” he asks Black. 

Black looks up at him, meows, and continues nibbling her food. 

Shiro shrugs. He can always use less on the electric bill.

* * *

The next day, Shiro once again bikes over to the shop, opens, sets everything up, and takes his usual spot at the counter to wait for the muffins to bake. He decides to give the floor another sweep, then pours another cup of coffee and makes his grocery list. Boxed mac n cheese, some vegetables, stuff for sandwiches, rice, maybe eggs. He can probably dash out during his lunch break—

Too soon, the oven timer dings, and Shiro rises, putting on heavy mitts and beginning to haul out trays.

But what’s the point? Each burden seems to press against his shoulders as his feet scrape against the floor, numbly placing pastries that he’ll eventually take home at the end, stale and reheated. Oji-chan. The bakery. The student loans, then the business loans he’s still paying back. His useless college degree. The lack of a home to come back to. 

Suddenly, the counter gives away and the pans crash to the floor, spilling freshly-baked muffins that immediately split in half when they hit the tile. Shiro buckles right after, hands shaking as the metal rattles sharply against the riles. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

And to his horror, the tinkle of the opening bell tied to the front door handle sounds across the room. 

“Shiro?”

He prays it’s not a customer. “It’s all right! Just… dropped something.”

“Oh my god. Are you okay?” Someone kneels beside him, hand clapping onto his shoulder, squeezing. _“Shiro?”_

And he looks up to see Keith Kogane.


	2. Chapter 2

_Shiro heard about the new kid before he saw him._

_New people were a rare event, so the whole school was buzzing about the Shermans’ new foster kid who had already given James Griffin a black eye and sassed Mr. Iverson in first period._

_“He’s Japanese, like you, Shiro,” one of his classmates told him with a nudge to his shoulder._

_And when Shiro saw him poking a plastic fork suspiciously into chili cheese beans, he thought,_ No, he isn’t. 

_The kid scowled when Shiro plopped down across from him, brown paper bag in hand. “No, I don’t play sports, care about the school paper, or want to join the pep squad.”_

_“Good,” Shiro said, opening his bento box and deftly fishing out his chopsticks. It looked like Oji-chan got carried away again, carving the pickled radish into little fishes and rolling the rice into perfect spheres, even adding strawberry-colored mochi buns in a plastic baggie. He remembered begging for a PB &J or even cafeteria food before he simply stopped caring what people thought—and really, it was because people now knew him long enough to stop commenting on the contents of his lunch.“ Our pep squad’s terrible.” _

_There was a brief flash of a smirk before it disappeared. “So, are you the Bible study group?”_

_Shiro shook his head with a snort. “Not even close.”_

_“Good,” the kid echoed. He put down his fork and reaches for the unopened can of soda at his elbow, cracking it open with a scowl. Shiro could see him eyeing his lunch hungrily, but he instead smashes his fork into the beans, leaving it standing straight up. “I don’t want to join the cultural club, either.”_

_“There’s not enough for one,” Shiro retorted._

_The kid scanned the room, rolling his eyes. “Figures. I’m all out of guesses, then. Band? Yearbook? Choir?”_

_“None of the above,” Shiro said, amused despite himself. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to recruit you for anything.”_

_“So, I’m guessing you want my name? I’m going to be out of here in a few months anyway.”_

_“Still,” Shiro said. “It’s only polite. For example, I’m Takashi Shirogane, but everyone calls me Shiro.”_

_The kid set down his soda and waved mockingly with his right hand. “Keith Kogane. Everyone calls me Keith.”_

* * *

“Keith,” Shiro breathes. 

“Are you okay?” Keith repeats, and immediately begins scooping up the muffins with his bare hands. “Do you—Kosmo, _no_.” 

It’s just then Shiro notices a long snout nosing at the scattered crumbs and berries, as tall as Keith’s shoulder, more a wolf than a dog. Keith snaps his fingers and Kosmo sits, with a distinct huff coming from its mouth. 

“Stop it,” Keith says, more sternly this time. 

“There’s really no harm,” Shiro says stupidly. “I mean, I can’t sell these.” _Not like I was going to, anyway._

“Still, he knows better. Kosmo, I _mean_ it. Do you have a dustpan or something?”

“In the back near the sink,” Shiro says, and as Keith stands, Shiro can't help but stare.

Keith’s gotten taller—which, of course he has—hair no longer dangling in his face, but pulled back, showing off his indigo blue eyes. He’s still wearing the same black fingerless gloves and combat boots, only this time, they both look relatively new. There's even the same light scar across his cheek, something Keith never spoke about and Shiro never brought up. 

Keith holds out a hand, and Shiro finds himself taking it, noting that the fingernails were no longer chewed to stubs but actually buffed and manicured, allowing himself to be pulled up off the floor. 

“Thank you,” he says, remembering his manners. “I… didn’t expect to see you today. Or anyone, I guess.” 

“Neither did I,” Keith says, dropping his hand with a flush across his cheekbones. He turns on his heel, heading towards the back, calling over his shoulder: “I can’t believe you came back. I didn't expect to really see you.” 

“Yeah,” Shiro says lamely. He doesn’t know where to begin, but feels mildly ashamed, after his high school outbursts of wanting to get out of town and make something of himself, his full-ride scholarship, his promises to write. 

Not that Keith ever wrote him back, either. 

Keith strolls back in and begins to sweep, shooting his dog another warning look. Shiro watches him, awkwardly standing over him, taking in the leather jacket stretched over his broad shoulders. 

“How about you take a free pastry?” he finally offers. “My treat.” 

Keith looks up, smiling. “Just like your grandpa.”

"Yeah," Shiro almost whispers, "just like Oji-chan."

* * *

They end up sitting at one of the empty tables, Keith absentmindedly playing with the wiped-down salt and pepper shakers, Shiro staring down at his half-drunk cup of coffee. He should have changed his jeans today, he thinks, or at least threw on an apron to cover his wrinkled shirt. For a long time, they sit in silence. Keith doesn’t volunteer why he’s back, and Shiro doesn’t pry.

“Where did Kosmo come from?” Shiro asks instead. 

Keith ruffles his dog’s ears under the table. “My mom, actually. I mentioned not having any pets growing up, and when I went to my room, there he was—but much smaller. He’s really shot up.”

Shiro perks up. “Your bio mom?”

Keith gives a half-smile. “Yeah. I, uh, did a DNA test. She's really cool.” 

“That’s great,” Shiro says, but Keith doesn’t volunteer more. He takes another sip of his coffee, glances outside; it's only getting a little bit brighter out there, with a soft breeze whistling through the trees. “How have you been doing this whole time?” 

Keith shrugs. “Finished college. Traveled for a bit. You? It looks like you’re on shift today.” 

“And every day.” Shiro gives a pained smile. “Have you come back before…now?” 

Keith shakes his head. “No, not since I left for—for college. It was nice to get out of this place.” 

Shiro finds himself chuckling dryly. “Not worth sticking around at all?” 

Keith gives him a look, similar to what he'd given Kosmo a few minutes ago. “Not without you, it wasn't.” 

Shiro feels his ears heat up, and he pushes his mug to the side. “Yeah?" he replies, too lightly. "I’m surprised you remember me.” 

“Of course I remember you,” Keith says. “Do you remember me?”

* * *

_From that point on, Shiro watched Keith Kogane._

_His mom, of course, had heard of Keith through the small town grapevine and warned Shiro away—"He’s trouble, Takashi"—but for some reason, he goes out of his way to disobey her, a heart-skipping guilty twist in his stomach._

_Since that first meeting, Keith avoided him, instead staking out a territory under one of the trees in the quad, mostly with a book in his hands. Even when the weather turns to frost, covering the grass in a sleek, thin sheet of ice, Keith’s out there, leaning back against the trees, looking every bit like a cat sunning itself on a windowsill: eyes slightly lidded, ears perked ever so slightly for a bit of noise._

_He had a knack for turning his neck slowly at just the right amount of whispers and snickers: Keith’s frayed cuffs, his mysterious good grades that must mean he’s cheating or sleeping with someone, his prickly attitude, even at a stupid rumor where Keith’s somehow Shiro’s long-lost brother from an illicit affair._

_At lunch period, Keith often disappeared and returned with a grease-lined paper bag. It was against school rules to go out for lunch unless you were eighteen, but Keith didn’t seem to care._

_He didn’t smoke, like some of the other delinquents, as the teachers and some older folks call them, nor does he get into fights or join the circle of weed and amphetamine dealers the principal warned and warned about. When some seniors started a fistfight in the hallway, Shiro saw the burning in Keith’s eyes, as if he wanted to join in, but he only watched._

_And sometimes, Shiro would spot Keith watching through the front window of the bakery, as Shiro swept away errant crumbs and mopped up coffee spills, as he rang up customers when his mom and Oji-chan were busy, as he helped his grandfather knead mochi that never sold._

_“Would you like some?” Oji-chan asked once, but Keith startled and fled, leaves crunching all the way under his feet._

* * *

“Nothing much has changed, has it?” Keith asks, looking out the window. 

Shiro can tell Keith is not impressed. Most of the old shops, like the Christian bookstore that also sells antiques and the sporting goods store, are still around, with a new Starbucks and McDonald’s. 

“We have some vegetarian food,” Shiro says, and Keith rolls his eyes. At his feet, Kosmo huffs, as if expressing his disagreement, too. “Hey, it’s good. Not here, though.” 

Keith laughs. “I can’t imagine you as a vegetarian after seeing you go wild at local barbeques.” 

Shiro finds himself laughing, too. “Yeah, I racked up a lot of debt at hotpots and barbeques.”

“That’s why you had to leave?” Keith asks, half-teasing. 

Shiro lets his gaze fall to the floor. “Oji-chan got sick, and it was too much for my mom to take care of him and run the bakery. He..." His throat closes and he forces himself to keep going. "He didn't make it, and my mom ended up moving back to Japan, to my old apartment complex, actually. Said she wanted to get away from everything after..." 

Keith places a hand over Shiro’s. “I’m so sorry. Your grandpa was the only one in this town besides you who liked me, you know.” 

Shiro remembers Oji-chan slipping Keith extra chunky rocky-road cookies with a secretive smile, bringing them cut-up strawberries and apples and bananas during study breaks. He had been the one to suggest Keith’s employment at the shop, to sneak Shiro some bills to buy snacks for their illicit date nights, to urge Shiro to keep writing when Keith didn’t respond. 

He swallows around another lump in his throat. “Yeah, he would have liked to see you again. He left his place to me, and this bakery, I… can’t leave it.” Shiro looks around the empty room and sighs. “I might just lose it anyway.” 

“Why?” Keith asks, surprised. 

Shiro shrugs. It’s either that or break down again. “People just don’t want another small-town bakery, I guess. Or I’m really shitty at running it.”

“No, you’re not,” Keith says fiercely. “It’s just tough going here, and you still have the character and feel around. I can easily picture myself back, your grandpa taking orders and going back to make mochi. It’s a shame no one bought it, but it meant more for us.” 

Shiro laughs; Keith had been a fiend for red bean paste-stuffed ones. “You would have loved Tokyo,” he says. “They had heaps of it, and taiyaki and daifuku and dorayaki and green tea ice cream and milk bread and yokan and all these colorful little jellies. The sushi and ramen, of course, were amazing, but I think I spent most of my funds at this little pastry shop. Going through security took longer because I was laden down with all these snacks.” 

“I can picture it. Do you have any left?” 

“No, I think I ate them all within the first few weeks,” Shiro confesses. He realizes Keith’s hand is still on his, but doesn’t move to pull it away. It's nice to have something familiar again, something that doesn't hurt. “Now it’s just stale muffins and the occasional banana breakfast loaf.” 

“Well, that’s not fair,” Keith says. He looks at the display counter, lips pursed, clearly in thought. 

Just then, the front door opens, and Shiro quickly pulls his hand away and stands up, swiping his hands down his jeans. 

“Welcome to Shirogane’s,” he says breathlessly. “What can I help you with?”

* * *

_The job had been a point of contention between his mom and grandpa, with Shiro hearing their arguments through his closed bedroom door._

_"Are you kidding?_ _I know you feel sorry for him, Papa, but we can’t take charity cases."_

_"If money’s an issue, dock some of my pay—"_

_"For a stranger? Give that money to your grandson, not some delinquent."_

_"This Keith just needs a second chance, Aki. I will take full responsibility."_

_"Fine. Just don’t expect me to step in, or for Takashi to play nice with this boy."_

_Shiro didn’t know why Keith agreed to work there, but mostly stayed out of Keith’s way, even during breaks, where he bolted down whatever was in the tiny fridge and went for a walk around town._

_Having Keith in close proximity made his stomach flip,_ _especially when Oji-chan suddenly decided to put them both on Friday inventory duty._

_That day, Keith was more prickly than usual, insisting on recounting almost each time, making Shiro fight the urge to toss the clipboard at him. Shiro wasn’t much better, having nearly slashed himself with the box cutter from wrestling with a stubborn package. His duty of having to fish boiled eggs bobbing in preservative liquid out of a large plastic container had made his mood worse; he hoped he could get the smell out of his clothes, the stains out of his apron that kept getting untied in the back._

_“Where is the fucking stool?” Keith muttered for the fifth time._

_“I told you I can handle it,” Shiro repeated, then sighed, glancing at the clock. He can hear his mom ringing up someone at the cash register, Oji-san turning on the rickety stand mixer in the next room. “Come on, we should have finished half an hour ago.”_

_“It’s not my fault you miscounted the last four shipments.”_

_“And it’s not mine that you managed to misplace the cartons of strawberries in the walk-in fridge. We have a system: fresh fruits with fresh fruits, frozens with frozens on the top shelf...”_

_“Why are you in such a hurry? There’s hardly anyone out there.”_

_“Fridays are our biggest days and it will pick up soon. You would know that if—”_

_“If what? I work just as hard as you.”_

_“You wouldn’t even be here if Oji-chan hadn’t—”_

_“I don’t need to hear how I’m your grandpa’s charity case,” Keith hissed, moving to reach something on the top shelf, jostling Shiro. He stood on the edges of his tiptoes, and Shiro, with a twinge of remorse, can see why the stool would be handy._

_“Let me get it,” Shiro offered._

_“I can do it myself.”_

_“I’m_ trying _to help. Just let me…”_

_And loaves of wrapped bread and bagels came raining down._

_Shiro and Keith swore at the same time, Shiro hoping no one heard both the crash or the cursing, each bending down to reach for a bag._

_His hand met Keith’s, and they froze, faces mere inches apart._

_Later, Shiro didn't recall who leaned in first. But he remembered the rolls of bagels dropping to the ground again, forgotten, when they kissed for the first time._


	3. Chapter 3

_“You know, you don’t have to make me bento boxes.”_

_“I don’t,” Shiro lied, even though Oji-chan told him more than once that he was convincing an actor as a sock puppet. “Mom already made too much and set some aside for you.”_

_“Now I know you’re lying: your mom hates me.”_

_“She does not.”_

_“She dislikes me, then.” Keith pops open the lid and whistles. The ginger peels are fanned into a flower, the rice balls squished into animal head shapes with tiny black sesame seeds for eyes. “See? You should have said your grandpa made it. That would have been more convincing.”_

_Shiro blushed. “I just don’t want you stealing my food. Or eating one of those burgers—did you hear a rat died on the grill last Monday?”_

_“I'm sure they disinfect,” Keith said dryly. He picked a rice ball up and popped it whole into his mouth. “This is really good, you know.”_

_He couldn’t help but preen. They’re a secret—except from likely Oji-chan—but he couldn’t help feeling pride in doing stuff for his boyfriend. Boyfriend. He never had one before, never even kissed a boy. He had managed to dodge playground pecks, as well as ignore the suggestive glances from fellow classmates, until Keith._

_Keith was really good at kissing. Even though they didn’t get a lot of opportunities, Shiro didn’t mind. It was a rush sneaking one in the walk-in, then another at the kitchen table while his mom stepped out to take out the trash, then another when Shiro insisted on walking Keith home in the dark. They never dared at school; neither wanted that attention._

_“Maybe I should forget college and go to culinary school,” Shiro half-joked, thinking of his mom’s disappointed sigh, his list of schools that included competitive international business courses and science organizations and connection-heavy fraternities._ It doesn’t pay to be a dreamer, Takashi _, she'd told him more than once, glancing from the ledger, pen tucked behind her ear._ Your father was and your Oji-chan is, but it never got them very far.

_“Well, I’d be your first customer if you were.”_

_Shiro mock-pouted. “Not my helper?”_

_“I can’t cook and you know that,” Keith said, finishing another rice ball, nearly swallowing it whole like a snake. “Besides, I can’t afford culinary school. Or college.”_

_“You’re really smart, Keith. If you—”_

_“Don’t.” Keith scowled, and Shiro shut up. “I’ve already heard this so many times, and my record’s fucked up. This place is my last chance.”_ _He then picked up a piece of pickled radish and popped it into his mouth._

_“_ _Besides,” he said, still chewing, “it’s not like I was going anywhere anyway.”_

* * *

It takes a while for Shiro to realize Keith’s not leaving anytime soon. 

He’s always there in the mornings, Kosmo always in tow, helping Shiro with the batter and set up, until the evening when everything closes, even sometimes there at the bakery even earlier than Shiro. 

Keith also runs errands, even fixing them both lunch, filling up the kitchen with the scents of chili oil and garlic and rice vinegar, steamed rice, melted cheddar cheese, mouth-wateringly smoky barbeque. Shiro doesn’t know where Keith learned to cook, but every bite is delicious, and he feels bad going home and serving himself another frozen meal. Black even seems to turn up her nose at his choices, sniffing him and running off, possibly to find a more exciting owner. 

It gets to the point where Shiro tells him in a burst of small-town hospitality that he doesn’t have to keep paying for some hotel room when he could just stay at his place. 

It’s strange, having Keith in a place he was grudgingly welcomed to at times, but the house is soon filled with labeled food in the fridge, an occasional new stack of library books, and a doggy bed Kosmo likes to curl up in. Shiro offers to take the couch, with Black traitorously refusing to join him and instead curling up with Keith and Kosmo in the bedroom. 

He lays on the couch, imagining tiptoeing in, avoiding the creaky spot on the floor, and crawling between the covers. Does Keith still like to be kissed with a slight nip or curl up in a lap while buried in another book? Has Keith been with anyone? Shiro has, in college and Tokyo, with guys he never really stuck around with. He never thought of bringing any home to his mom and Oji-chan, ending up renouncing dating after a certain period of time. 

When Shiro tries to fill in the gaps, Keith steps away. He doesn’t have a phone or a laptop, Shiro comes to notice, even to keep in touch with his mom or scroll through when he’s bored. He avoids the news, even turning the channel when Shiro flicks it on at the shop. He dodges questions about college, about where he found his mom. And neither of them are rehashing high school memories, either. 

Yet Keith’s constant. He looks at Shiro with a familiar, steady gaze, willing to help at any chance. They drive down to the city to pick up some supplies, Keith wearing a pair of aviators that were slightly too big for his face. They walk Kosmo through town and down some trails, occasionally dipping their feet into the ice-cold creek. They discuss sprucing up the plain coffees, eliminate non-sellers off the menu, and even touch up the storefront. Keith is the one to suggest flowers outside, then find a deal on boba supplies that they make into milk teas and smoothies that actually turn a profit. 

Shiro goes to bed each night, wondering if he could dare ask Keith to join him. 

And one day, when Shiro unlocks the shop, he nearly jumps: Keith, instead of unloading the muffin batter, is at the front counter, stacking some things in the display window, Kosmo wagging eagerly at his side. 

“What are you…?” 

“Pastries,” Keith says, straightening a label with his illegible scrawl on the front. “I thought maybe you could sell them. Or if they don’t, eat them.” 

Shiro stares. There are rows and rows of pastel-colored buns, with tiny rabbit-shaped mochi and golden taoyaki sprinkled with a dusting of powdered sugar. “Keith, this is… Did you _make_ all of these?” 

“A few, but some are from a, uh, friend who sent way too much.” 

“ _Keith.”_

“I kept back some for you,” Keith quickly adds, shaking a white paper bag at him. “I assume you haven’t eaten breakfast?” 

As Shiro opens his mouth to protest, Keith stuffs something in his mouth. Sputtering, Shiro does his best to chew, tasting powdery matcha and perfectly oozing dark chocolate and exquisite cloud-like softness. It’s _amazing._

When he looks up, Keith’s grinning. “Not bad, huh?” 

That day turns out to be one of those busiest Shiro’s experienced. They actually sell out all of the pastries, people cooing over them and taking pictures and buying treats by the dozen. A few even ask if the dark chocolate-filled matcha buns will be there tomorrow. 

“Uh,” Shiro can only say the first time. 

“Yeah,” Keith interrupts, with a winning smile. “Next morning, freshly baked.” 

When the customer leaves, Shiro turns to Keith with a raised eyebrow. “Do you have a warehouse of those pastries or something?”

Keith only smiles mysteriously.

* * *

Just after they close for the day, Shiro finds Keith standing in the back, lifting the lid off the rice cooker. 

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Shiro asks. 

Keith hands Shiro an apron. “Mochi.” 

It’s much easier that they don’t have to pound it into bouncy consistency by hand. _That’s what modern technology is for_ , Keith had said, tossing the whole pot into a stand mixer with some water and sugar, then turning on the motor. He already had water-coated spatulas and hands ready to go, along with two bento boxes to eat while the mixer was hard at work. 

“There’s powder for this, but I thought since I already had bed bean paste out of a bag and ice cream cartons, we could do some more labor,” Keith explains through a mouthful of teriyaki chicken. 

Shiro shakes his head in astonishment. “You’re always surprising me, Keith.”

Keith shrugs, ducks his head, and coos at Kosmo. Black’s already fed, Keith had promised, with a bit of extra tuna to keep her from missing them. _There’s no way your tiny kitchen could make these._

When Keith gets up to check the mochi, Shiro finds himself smiling in a way he hasn’t in years. 

But when Keith rolls up his sleeves to reach into a bag of potato starch, Shiro’s smile slides off his face, breath catching in his throat. 

He recognizes that bracelet. 

It’s woven leather, with no dangling charms or designs punched on the outside, something that would be picked up at a boardwalk stall or found sold at a counter along with bouncy balls and buttons. The only thing distinctive about it is the red streak running through the middle, like a stone tossed into water. 

Yet Shiro remembers tying it around Keith’s wrist, how Keith slowly turned it back and forth in the moonlight as if it were a diamond ring. How he held his breath as he grazed a thumb along Keith’s wrist, feeling the pulse beat as rapidly as a rabbit’s. How Keith didn’t pull away when he leaned in, how his shirt was crumpled in a fist, how quiet they were, or thought they were. 

Keith doesn’t seem to notice, only sprinkles potato starch over the large mound of dough on the counter, and turns to Shiro with a grin. “See? That’s why the apron’s necessary.” 

Shiro does his best to look casual, pushing aside his empty box and taking his place beside Keith.

Together, they pull and shape the dough into smaller, bun-like shapes. It’s rhythmic, soothing, and silent, even if Shiro’s fingers stick together more than once and some potato starch is more on his apron than the dough. This close, he can hear every breath in Keith’s throat, see the tongue running thoughtfully over the edge of his lower lip...

“How about some music?” Shiro asks. 

He washes his hands, goes to the radio with its slightly-bent antenna, and switches it on. Immediately, slow piano music fills the air. 

“Oldies night,” Keith comments. 

“I like it,” Shiro says, returning to the countertop. They’re almost done, covering a tray with plastic wrap to keep the mochi from drying out. “No offense to Oji-chan, but hearing all that flute music at home drove me crazy.” 

Keith smirks. “I remember that. It was the one thing he and your mom could agree on.” 

“Ha, and the importance of breakfast every day,” Shiro says, gently laying the last one down and patting it once. “Well, I guess now you and Mom could agree on something for once.” 

“That, and not going to a high school dance,” Keith replies, leaving to put the tray in the fridge for the night. “Trust me; I’ve been to triple anyone here’s had. It’s overrated.”

“I blame Hollywood for my expectations. Besides, no one would have gone with me if I could.” 

“I would have if you could have.” 

He turns around. Keith is in the doorway of the walk-in, strands of hair across his forehead, white powder on his apron. He looks vulnerable in a way Shiro’s never seen, even back then. 

“I…” The music’s still playing; Shiro can barely hear himself when he says, “Would you like to dance? Right now?” 

Keith turns, Shiro’s heart squeezing tight in his chest—and the door shuts with a soft thud. “I would,” he answers. 

Shiro holds his breath as Keith steps closer, then loops his arms around his shoulders. 

Automatically, Shiro winds his arms around Keith’s waist and pulls him close. The lights are low as they sway on the tiled floor, Shiro feeling as clumsy as he was during his growth spurt. Keith is smaller, yes, but solid in his hands, the ends of the bracelet’s ties tickling the back of his neck. 

And they dance.


	4. Chapter 4

The pastries continue to sell. 

They actually get to tourist season, Shiro trying to hide his tears from Keith on the first day. He’s managed to chip away at his loans and pay off the rent _and_ have extra; he’s not sure how, but his luck began with Keith. 

It always has, Shiro thinks, while handing off a box to another customer. And Keith doesn’t seem to be wanting to leave, especially after that night. If he asked Keith to—

The bell chimes, and a man taller than Shiro’s ever seen walks in. He’s dressed in a full suit, with a silver braid hanging down his back, and something that looks like a tinier version of a Bluetooth phone clipped to his ear. Shiro’s seen a lot of tourists, but no one quite like this. 

“Welcome to Shirogane’s,” he begins. “Is there—”

“I’m looking for Keith.” 

Shiro frowns at the clipped tone of his voice. “Uh…” 

“You are Takashi Shirogane, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” Shiro slowly admits, “but—”

“Then Keith has been with you all this time.” 

Shiro’s gaze flickers to the phone they keep in the back; is this some crazy ex of Keith’s? “I really don’t know if I can help you—”

_“Kolivan?”_

Keith’s standing in the doorway, and his face has gone pastry-dough white. At his side, Kosmo’s staring at the stranger, nose bristled. “What are…?” 

“You actually know this guy?” Shiro interrupts. He flashes Keith a look he hopes comes off as _Are you okay? Should we call someone?_ If worst comes to worst, Shiro frantically thinks, there's a lot of heavy items in the back, and two people are usually better than one. 

“Kolivan,” Keith says again. To Shiro’s surprise, he walks past them both and flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED, then turns towards the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “How did you find me?” 

“Regris covered your tracks quite well,” Kolivan says. “You were smart enough to take a wayward route, bring cash, and ditch your phone, but unfortunately, your little… enterprise here pinged something.” 

Keith closes his eyes and mutters a curse. Shiro begins scooting towards the phone, eyes still on Kolivan. “Fine. You caught up.” 

“Luckily so. Your mother may be lenient with you, but this is not only your birthright but your duty.” 

_That_ confuses Shiro, enough for him to pause mid-doorway. Kolivan seems to sense the movement and whips around, glaring at Shiro. “I should have guessed you had something to do with this.” 

“Shiro doesn’t know anything,” Keith snaps. “Don’t give me so little credit.”

“Yes, your delinquency has prepared you well.” Okay, Shiro definitely does _not_ like this man. “After all that time training and preparing and studying, you decide to throw it all away and come back here? For some fling? Your country needs you; you can’t abandon it.” 

There’s genuine emotion there, Shiro senses. Country? Is Keith a draft dodger? He never seemed much for the military or anything government-affiliated, but it’s not like Keith talked about—that would explain—

“I didn’t mean to stay this long,” Keith admits, and a knife goes through Shiro’s stomach. “But—” 

“You are miles better than Lotor, but you are the most rebellious, stubborn prince I have ever—”

Keith suddenly shoves Kolivan out the door; Shiro can see them furiously arguing. His own mind is racing, and he numbly reaches down to pet Kosmo. What’s going on? Keith… _royalty_? 

In a terrible bout of humor, Shiro thinks, _If only our class could see him right now._

Keith finally comes back in, cheeks flushed and mouth turned down in a scowl. Outside, Kolivan’s storming off down the street, braid swinging behind him. 

“What was he talking about?” Shiro demands. “Are you really a… prince?” 

Keith hangs his head. “I am,” he admits. 

Shiro takes a deep breath. Beside him, Kosmo whimpers. “I feel we should sit down for this.”

* * *

Keith refuses the coffee. 

“After you went off to college,” he begins, “I started drifting; it wasn't my finest moment. My foster parents eventually kicked me out, and your grandpa took me in. But… I didn’t want to rely on him, so I left. I found my mom, but also my birthright, as Kolivan says.” He scoffs. “He didn’t want to delay it any longer; Daibazaal apparently had this massive power vacuum and he wanted me on the throne as soon as possible. My mom seemed to want it, too, and I thought I could get to know her better there. 

“So I went over. I finished school, went to university there, even did military service for a time. Kolivan basically controlled my schedule: where I was, what I did, no time for socializing beyond what I had to appear at. And during free time, I managed to actually spend time with my mom. She got me Kosmo; she thought it might help me… be less alone.” 

Several things click at once. “That’s why you didn’t come back?”

Keith winces. “I did write. But I never knew how to explain everything and you seemed like you were happy to be away. And then, I never heard from you; I guess I got scared. But when they started looking for suitors, it was like an alarm bell went off. This guard I befriended, Regris, actually helped me leave the country and so... here I am.”

Something about that seems wrong, but Shiro finds himself stuck on one thing: “Suitors?” 

Keith plucks at his bracelet. “I’m still politically inexperienced, even if the people seem to like the long-lost prince. Or don’t want to kill me. But overall, it was thought I would do better with someone who could actively help me, and uh, have an heir with. At some point.” 

Shiro gapes. “But…” 

“Yeah. I explained that to Kolivan, but as long as I _picked_ an heir or got a surrogate, it would work. I’m kind of the last official line, or something.” 

“So it’s important that you were missing,” Shiro reasons. “What happens if you don’t come back?”

“I don’t know,” Keith admits. “Maybe they’ll choose someone else. And in a way, that’s kind of a relief. People _bow_ to me. They publish everything I say. I don’t know who I am.”

“But you _should_ go back. I can’t ask you to give up everything—your family, your throne, your country—for this.” He gestures around the bakery. “It’s doing well now, but it can fail.” 

“And I won’t let it.” 

A thought comes to him. “Did you really have a friend who sent you too much, the first time?” 

Keith looks down at the table. “No. I asked a friend—like, the only friend I made in university—to help. And I did take out, uh, what would be a trust fund before I left, so I was able to pay him. He’s actually just finished culinary school. But I swear I baked the rest.” 

That doesn’t seem to matter right now. “You _financed_ everything?” 

Keith looks defensive. “I did help, like with the boba and the first batch, but you actually took it and made something! It’s not like I bribed anyone or—”

Shiro holds up his hand. “But you used money that—Were you _allowed_ to take it? is this going to be some sort of international incident?” 

“Stop,” Keith hisses. “Don’t make it a bigger deal than it is. You’ve never given up on me, and I’m not going to give up on you.” 

His eyes are fierce in something Shiro doesn’t dare to accept. 

“You shouldn’t have done this,” Shiro finds himself saying. “You should go.”

Keith’s jaw drops, and Kosmo whimpers. “What?” 

“You should,” he repeats. “Look, you paid me back. You paid Oji-chan back. You don’t need to do more.”

Several emotions go through Keith’s face at once, and Shiro looks away when he realizes one of them is hurt. 

He’s never hurt Keith. Especially not like this. 

But he needs to go. After all the shit he’s been through, he deserves this: a stable life, a family, a country that will eventually love him, because Keith is— 

Keith stands up, and Kosmo goes to his side. His eyes are glassy, and Shiro once again turns away as Keith turns on his heel and walks out the door. 

And for the first time in a long time, Shiro closes the bakery alone.

* * *

At home, Shiro opens up a can for Black and goes straight to bed.

* * *

The next morning, there's a stranger in his kitchen. 

“Keith sent me,” he says, holding up his hands. 

Shiro soon learns that the chef, Hunk, was behind the pastries and finds himself accepting his help. He also turns out to be a powerhouse in business, helping Shiro choose more staff as the tourist season continues to pick up, as well as how to replace the stand mixer and ovens without spending a fortune. 

Keith’s not mentioned, but Shiro can feel his presence whenever Hunk shows him how to pull pastry out of the oven at the exact right time, whenever he eats another microwaved meal, whenever he pulls up the covers and sees Kosmo’s bed still in the hallway. 

He misses Keith, even more than all those years before. He tells himself he made the right call, that Keith couldn’t tie himself down here. His mom would have done the same, chosen practicality over an uncertain future, finding a way to salvage Oji-chan's bakery before it could collapse, then using that to help propel her son for what she believed was a better future. 

But every day that ticks by without Keith seems to mock his decision. Especially since he implied that it was just a quid pro quo, that Keith being home had meant nothing more than a favor, that he lied so blatantly and Keith believed him.

Oji-chan would have been disappointed with him. 

Keith kept his bracelet, Shiro remembers. Keith came back. He owes Keith, at the very least, an apology, but whenever he tries to write it down—

Something pings in his mind. Keith said Shiro never wrote to him, but that’s not true. He did. He has the sent receipts to prove it. And somehow, that day, Keith had implied he’d tried to reach out, too.

But if Shiro had heard from Keith, he would have dropped everything to respond—

“Shiro,” Hunk’s repeating, “you have to open it, man.” 

“What?” 

Hunk yanks open the oven door and takes out the tray of matcha buns with an exasperated groan. “All right. That was on the nose and is _not_ something that should happen. The chocolate inside is probably going to be molten, so we’ll need to cool these longer. I think—uh, Shiro, are you okay?” 

“Hunk,” Shiro says slowly. “Have you heard from Keith?” 

Hunk clearly hesitates before saying, “Well, a little. But he doesn’t talk much; he's pretty much on house arrest. He mentioned that he might go through with the coronation—”

“The what?”

“Coronation,” Hunk repeats, setting the tray down on the counter and adjusting the handkerchief tied around his forehead. “You know. Being crowned. Officially. Probably back in the game for marriage, too.”

With that, Shiro makes a decision: “Do you mind being in charge and watching Black for a few days?” 

Hunk’s face says it all: _Go._


	5. Chapter 5

Keith knows this is supposed to be where he belongs now. It’s his birthright, the home he looked for all these years. And if it was just that, he’d take it. 

Ever since his escape, Kolivan’s taken measures: footmen in every doorway, guards in every hall, servants in every room, with Regris on “probationary leave,” something Keith feels horrendously guilty about. 

It’s his last warning, something he’s very familiar with. 

If only it could just be him and his mom. The first time they’d seen each other in person was predictably awkward, but piecing together fragments of their lives helped heal the bond, especially about his dad. Keith talked about him, how he made chili on Friday nights and brought back goodies from the fire station’s snack room, the scent of his coat after a long day’s work. Krolia recalls meeting him as a young escaped princess, spending a few blissful years together until the heir to the throne had died and left her the crown. He hadn’t wanted to follow her to another country, either, into a strange world dripping with jewels and gold and and a civil war that had ended up preventing further communications for years. 

“You are so much like him,” his mom says on the day of his coronation. 

Keith looks away from the full-length mirror. He’s been scrubbed and plucked and polished within an inch of his life, then dressed in deep purple robes and a silver circlet to be ready to greet the restless crowd waiting outside. Some of the suitors have withdrawn, deterred by his untimely exit, but Kolivan stonily informed him that more were willing to “take him in hand.” 

_Sometimes people find deep respect in these marriages,_ Kolivan continued. _It might not be a spark of passion, but it's loyalty that can last a lifetime._

She continues: “I wish I could have stayed. I knew I couldn’t, and even if I had the chance, I might have not, or tried harder to get him to come with me. There’s no shame in not wanting this, Keith.” 

Keith turns, startled. “But… I found you.” 

Krolia smiles and wraps him in an embrace. “You’ll always have me, Keith, no matter what you choose.” 

“I chose this,” Keith says, but even to himself, it doesn’t sound convincing. “I may not belong here, but I could. And I don’t think I could go back.” 

“Why do you think that?” 

“I was a failure before, and when I did come back, I found what I was looking for, but they weren’t looking for me.”

Krolia seems to startle. “They?” 

“Yeah. Um, an old boyfriend. Takashi Shirogane.” Keith tastes the words on his tongue, probably for the last time. “I guess I didn’t tell you about him, but—”

“Wait here.” 

Keith watches, surprised, as Krolia practically dashes out of the room. He looks to the window, then at the sheet of paper he’s supposed to read, carefully crafted by the press team. It doesn’t sound like him at all, but it’s “the apology for your stunt that counts,” Kolivan told him. 

He feels bad for potentially embarrassing his mom. And Kolivan, he can understand: decades of war and tyranny are not easy, and the fact that the heir is completely at loss isn’t exactly helpful. Keith _wants_ to be a good ruler, he does, but he feels far from ready. What he told Shiro is true, too: He doesn’t know who he is. 

Especially now. 

Krolia finally comes back, holding a flash drive in her hand. 

“What is this? An orientation video?” he jokes half-heartedly. 

His mom doesn’t laugh. “Keith. When you were gone, Kolivan was searching for you. Regris—” Keith does his best not to react. “He was asked to scour databases, geo-trackers, news articles, whatever he could access. And then he found these, hidden deep in Kolivan’s folders.” 

Keith takes it and plugs it into his laptop. Immediately, a folder pops up, reading _TAKASHI SHIROGANE._

“What?” he gasps, and opens one at random. 

_Dear Keith,_ it reads, _I hope you’re busy and that’s why I haven’t heard from you for so long. I’m in my dorm and you wouldn’t believe how much beer pong people can play in one weekend..._

Another one: _I’m in Tokyo for study-abroad, and I wish I knew where to send you all the snacks I’ve bought. I might move here just for them!_

_Even through I'm an ocean away, you can visit me if you want. My apartment is the size of a shoebox, but it'll fit you. You don't have to do karaoke._

Yet another: _I miss you so much it hurts. Everyone has left me and I wish you would come home._

_Please come home._

_All my love, Shiro._

Keith finds himself trembling, fingers reaching under his sleeve to touch his bracelet. “He _did_ write.” 

“I wish I’d known, Keith. I would have never let Kolivan do this.” 

Keith closes out and slips the flash drive into his pocket. “Mom…”

“I know.” She smiles at him, albeit more sadly this time. “Go find him, Keith.” 

Keith runs, without so much as changing. He has the sense to grab his passport and wallet, but he doesn’t care about any other possessions. The guards are standing stupefied at their posts, but it’s only a matter of time before they leap into action. 

He lets out a long, shrill whistle, and Kosmo comes bounding after him. They both dash into the courtyard, hearing someone shout in alarm. He’ll have to shove past the crowd and he’s prepared for that; maybe they’ll hide him from the guards. He struggles out of his robes, freeing his arms—hopefully the white shirt underneath looks casual enough—then tosses his circlet into a nearby bush. 

Keith charges through the gates, into the crowd, hearing more shouts and one curse word when he accidentally steps on their foot. Behind him, footsteps rumble behind him; he can definitely hear Kolivan shouting. The crowd pushes against him, Kosmo helping clear a path, but they’re not even close to the airport. He’ll have to grab someone’s car, and that is not going to help his image one bit, but he doesn’t care. And like Kolivan said, his delinquency did serve him well—

Then: _“Shiro?”_

He’s never known Shiro to even be in the same place as a horse, but here Shiro is, clearly hanging on for dear life. 

_"Keith!”_ he shouts back, voice breathless from exertion and mild terror. 

Keith's laughing, even as he yanks himself out of a guard’s grip, Kosmo growling protectively. With cries of surprise and camera clicks filling the air, Shiro manages to rein in the horse and tumble onto the ground, looking vastly relieved he didn’t break anything. 

Keith throws his arms around Shiro’s shoulders, laughing breathlessly. “I can’t believe—where did you get the horse?” 

“It was the cheapest one in the stable,” Shiro says, a blush forming at his ears. “I didn’t have a license to rent a car, just my passport, but I saw these horse riding tours and just… ran away from the group.” 

Shiro’s hair is tousled, and his shirt has what looks like dried frosting smeared on one sleeve. He’s also sweating and smells strongly of horse, and the horse itself is pawing at his shoulder with its nose. Kolivan is finally close, voice raised in anger, and several phones are surely streaming the twice-runaway prince to every corner of the country. 

But that doesn’t matter. 

In full view of everyone, Keith tilts his head and kisses Shiro at last.

* * *

_A few weeks later..._

As always, at five a.m. sharp, Takashi Shirogane and Keith Kogane begin opening up the bakery. 

There’s still a combination of things sold at the counter and _Shirogane’s_ painted on the window, but unlike before, the place is filled with customers. 

Shiro’s bumping into more people behind the counter, too, but he doesn’t mind at all. He watches Hunk pull a fresh batch of buns from the oven, Kosmo begging politely at someone’s table, Keith placing new treats into the display window. There’s new staff, too: Romelle, who loved to give out samples and chat with customers; Shay, whose steady hands piped numerous cupcakes and macarons and wedding cakes; and Sal, who was working on his customer service skills. Hunk also promised to invite over an old friend, Pidge, who could help with the website and social media. 

There's no _shakuhachi,_ but oldies in the background, yet the booths are cherry-red and there is tea on every table, some with boba and grass jelly. Artwork also hangs on the walls, mainly from a friend of Hunk's, Allura, who's raising money for various charitable causes (and happens to be very, very distant royalty and engaged to a commoner). There are still "traditional" desserts, but mochi is definitely the star of the show, along with pastries of Shiro's home. Keith's thinking about Korean desserts one day, and Hunk's floated the idea of fusion baked goods more than once. 

"We have enough saved to start lunch items," he told them both, and Shiro found himself squeezing Keith's hand, flush with emotion that Oji-chan's dream was finally unfolding. 

Shiro hasn’t had time to read one of his library books, but he doesn’t mind. Nor does he have to worry about going home with a dark room and a microwaved dinner for company. (Black and Kosmo, surprisingly, now sleep in Kosmo’s doggy bed.) 

And Shiro gets to spend all hours with Keith, who’s declared Krolia as regent of Daibazaal in his stead. Keith doesn’t seem to care about his crown for now, especially that an international rumor’s floating around about the long-lost prince eloping, and personally, Shiro’s fine with that. 

He hopes Keith's excited about their upcoming trip to Japan this summer, ostensibly for research on business and pastries, as well dropping some news on his mom. 

The cash register chimes and laughter rises from a few of the tables as Shiro takes another tray out of the oven, carefully turning to kiss Keith on the cheek, who tastes of matcha and dark chocolate and powdered sugar. 

It’s going to be a good day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to guess who wrote this fic (and others)? Play along at [the Sheithmark site!](https://sheithmark.carrd.co/#guess)


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